


Wet

by MintJam



Series: Live a lie [12]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alfie is grumpy;, Anal Sex, But then there's, M/M, Mentions of War, Nightmares, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, This is really quite fluffy for me, Tommy is soft (in his own way), all the usual issues and repression, but no one says that, everyone cares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-01-25 04:08:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21349984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintJam/pseuds/MintJam
Summary: "He realises that the clothes he was wearing when he got into this bed last night are nowhere to be seen; he's naked as a newborn. It's pretty disconcerting that, because a man needs to keep a grip on a few basics in life doesn't he? Like the whereabouts of his own fuckin' underpants. All sorts of other things can start going awry if a man doesn't know where his kecks are or who took 'em off."In which Alfie is not feeling himself.Follows Temper in my Live a Lie AU but can be read on it's own.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Series: Live a lie [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1410712
Comments: 40
Kudos: 275





	Wet

It’s raining when Alfie wakes up on a Thursday morning. Proper rain. Not the usual damp London drizzle, but big, fat droplets that seem to fall too slowly and land too loudly. He hasn’t looked out yet but he can hear them smacking thickly against the glass, warning him to stay put. It makes a pleasant change, he supposes; it’s usually the birds that wake him first, welcoming the not-yet-dawn, although it seems they’ve all taken cover this morning, too busy keeping their feathers dry. Contrary little fuckers, birds; happy enough to chirp delightedly each morning over the Somme, heedless of the acres of filth and stench of death, and yet silenced by a simple downpour.

He lies still, listening to the water collecting in the gutters outside, running down the street and gurgling noisily into the drains. His sheets are drenched and he needs a piss. He ought to get up. No doubt the rain had a hand in conjuring up last night’s choice selection from the darkest recesses of his mind: Old Archie Pembroke. Fucker should have paid up of course — was one of the few that could afford to. Alfie had made sure it was a suitably watery end for the landlord of The Ship, The Lock Tavern and The Black Buoy. Drowning. In a barrel of his own beer. The ripples it sent through Camden doubtless saved the lives of a dozen other landlords who thought better of standing up to the volatile Jew thereafter. One life wrung out for the loyalty of dozens; he’d do it again in a trice.

The level of detail his subconscious mind can recall always staggers Alfie — the strength of grip required to keep a man's head beneath the surface; the frantic gasps for air after each submersion; the surprisingly long time it took for him to finally stop struggling. He'd forced the bar staff to watch (there's really no point in the theatre of it without an audience to spread the word) and they had gasped their way into his sleep too. Still, it was a far better death than many Alfie witnessed in France. Gas was the worst. When you've watched a man retch up yellow liquid from the depths of his own lungs over two whole days and nights — before finally drowning in it — then it's hard to feel sorry for a man like Pembroke.

Funny how the battlefield is not the thing that haunts Alfie. It haunts Tommy, he knows that much. Not that they ever discuss or even _acknowledge _that fact unless absolutely forced to. If Tommy’s aware of Alfie’s dreams then he doesn’t let on. Which is fine. It’s the same tack Alfie’s taken many times in reverse because no good comes of dragging those thoughts into your waking hours, far better to leave them wrapped in the sheets. Food or a fuck is Alfie's preferred medicine — although seeing as the cupboards are bare and Tommy hasn't been in London for days neither is on the menu this morning.

The rain continues unabated as he splashes cold water over his face; washes his eyes, his hair, his beard. The dream refuses to wash off, its remnants cling to him like smoke; not the specifics, just a vague feeling of unease that he knows will last well past lunchtime. Which is why, when Edna shuffles in, a blast of petrichor in her wake, he welcomes the distraction and insists she drink tea with him. She knows the score, knows she'll find wet sheets when she heads upstairs, but Alfie's strange gruff manner doesn't bother her. She'd never have lasted this long if it did. And so they share tea and Alfie asks after her brother, a man so wrecked by the war he never leaves the house. They share the bagels Edna brought in comfortable silence until, with warm tea and food in his belly the heaviness starts to lift. Alfie can't help but think of his mother, like Edna a hard-working, uncomplaining woman. He wonders vaguely what she'd make of the man he's become? Would she be proud or dismayed? Neither, probably, she was always a pragmatist. Alfie's pulled from his thoughts by the shrill ring of the telephone in the other room. It's Olly, all of a panic — there's been some sort of flood at the bakery. He's starting to wonder if his watery dream was an omen.

–––––

The mess at the bakery is nothing short of a disaster; the priority is keeping the surviving barrels dry and protecting the molasses (that stuff is still not easy to come by — not quite the liquid gold it was a few years ago, but valuable nonetheless). He spends half the day knee-deep in cold, filthy water and the other half bellowing at his staff, the insurance broker, several suppliers and anyone else with enough of a death-wish to come within 5 yards of him. Which all means that by the time he gets home he is freezing, stinking and ready to kill the next person to so much as look at him the wrong way. He runs himself a bath (upstairs; he's too tired to fill the copper tub) and lies in the warm water pondering the fucking fortune it's gonna cost to sort out the buildings — not to mention the lost stock, revenue and good will. The one saving grace, if you can call it that, is that the whole shebang appears to have been an act of God, which at least means he doesn't have to add retribution to the list of actions required (the Lord God Almighty is outside even Alfie's jurisdiction). He lays there, eyes closed, and tries to empty his head, to think of nothing, to think of the value of sight, but his mind is too busy and it isn't long before he finds himself wondering what's been happening with the Shelbys. In and of itself, this fact is downright bloody disturbing. The last thing he needs in his current mood is an unsolicited image of John and Arthur skittering across his mind — it's enough to make his already disinterested cock retreat back inside his body entirely. Fucking _hell_. He's not one to cast aspersions on the virtue of the late Mrs Shelby, but the idea that Tommy was born of the same blood as those two gormless idiots is just ... well it's fucking _preposterous _is what it is.

If he's honest, he's a bit disappointed that Tommy hasn't been in touch for days. Not that he's made any running himself, of course. Tommy will be in touch when he's good and ready. Or when he's spectacularly fucked himself up somehow. One or the other. He drags himself slowly out of the bath and decides to turn in for the night because he's not feeling all that great — throat a bit sore, chest a bit heavy — all that fucking cold water no doubt. It doesn't prevent the ghastly dream that follows shortly after, it's William Taylor tonight (stabbed in the chest) although he wakes halfway through the grisly climax because there's banging coming from downstairs. Shit, he forgot to lock the fucking security bars. He grabs his gun as he stumbles onto the landing, physically shaking off the nightmare as he limps down the stairs. It’s Tommy, of course, and he's clearly had a couple of drinks ... not a skinful, but enough to make him a little louder than usual. 

"You haven't locked the fucking security gates, Alfie." 

"Well hello to you too, darling."

Tommy's looking at him strangely, brow furrowed. "Did I get you out of the bath?" he asks. 

Alfie looks down, momentarily perplexed, before realising his undershirt is soaked. "Yeah, yeah, s'nothing," he grumbles. "Shitty day, that's all." He'd rather not have to explain exactly why he's drenched in sweat, but one of the benefits of sleeping with an emotionally repressed numbskull is that he's highly unlikely to pry. Especially when he's had a few. Alfie heads back upstairs and straight to his room, retrieving a fresh undershirt from the press. He's just changed into it when Tommy appears from the bathroom, looking less clothed but more bemused. He sits down on the edge of the bed and opens his arms in a clear signal he wants a hug. He's definitely had a drink, then. Alfie walks into the embrace, stands between his open thighs and lets warm arms wrap around his waist. Tommy rests his head against Alfie's stomach for a moment and it fucking warms his cockles, even if the man does smell of whiskey. Of course then Tommy opens his mouth and spoils the whole bloody moment, but that's him all over innit? "Nearly broke my fucking leg in there," he mumbles into Alfie's shirt. "S'water everywhere. Wet my socks. And you didn't empty the tub, it's full of cold water."

"All fuckin' right," Alfie says defensively. "Anything else you'd like to complain about? It is me own bleeding house, mate." He was going to add an amusing quip about whales and blowholes but his brain doesn't want to play ball. It wants to close down for the night, despite the slightly drunk man clinging to his middle who is now trying to nose down his shorts.

"I really need to get some shut-eye, mate."

"Too tired for a blow job?" Tommy says, fingers tucking into Alfie's waistband.

"Fraid so," Alfie mumbles, at which Tommy looks absolutely incredulous. Which is a bit offensive actually. It's not like he's a total whore on an average day now, is it? Although, actually ... where Tommy is concerned ... now that he looks back on the past few months ... well whore's not _quite_ the word he'd choose. He can't help it if he's generally enthusiastic. Because Tommy is genuinely the best shag of his life and can get him hard just by walking through a door... usually ... bloody hell, which is a sure sign he's not one hundred percent tonight, but doesn't mean ...

"Alfie? You sure?"

"Fuckin' hell Tom, never thought I'd say this, but yes."

"Alright," Tommy says, pushing himself up. Only now he's fucking pouting. Alfie can't resist reaching over and flicking the bottom lip that's protruding just enough to have crossed the line between sexy and childish. It doesn't go down well – Tommy smacks his hand away irritably and proceeds to unbutton his shirt. If Alfie was feeling more himself he'd find a suitable way to repay Tommy for that. But he's not. So he doesn't.

"Just get in, Tommy," he sighs as he pulls back the covers and slides one leg into the bed. The sodden sheets make him recoil instantly, "Oh for fucks _sake_," he yells. Tommy looks up at him sharply. "S'fuckin drenched. Just like this entire _wretched_ day. I'm gonna sleep in the spare room." He heads for the door in exasperation, fully expecting Tommy to follow. He doesn't. He just stands there looking like he's been slapped. "With _you_, you bloody _idiot_," Alfie snaps, grabbing Tommy by the hand and physically dragging him across the landing. How come, right, he's the one who's just relived, with ungodly realism, a brutal (albeit necessary) stabbing; he's the one who feels like shit, and yet _Tommy's_ the one who needs reassuring?

He gets into the spare bed and manhandles Tommy into some sort of spooning position. He can't tell whether the man's still pouting or not, but the way he presses his back against Alfie's chest suggests not. He kisses the back of Tommy's head, hopeful of a more peaceful night now that this surly, peevish little gypsy is back in his bed. Well, not _his_ bed, technically. His spare bed. But the point stands. He's asleep within moments.

–––––

The bloody birds are back on form the next morning, little bastards, cheerily welcoming the new day. At least that means the rain's stopped. He's confused for a moment when he opens his eyes, can't quite place where he is. He feels rough as old boots – his head aches, his throat feels like broken glass and his limbs are as heavy as sandbags. He's overslept, must have done, the sun's already up and there's no sign of Tommy. He realises that the clothes he was wearing when he got into this bed last night are nowhere to be seen either; he's naked as a newborn. It's pretty disconcerting that, because a man needs to keep a grip on a few basics in life doesn't he? Like the whereabouts of his own fuckin' underpants. All sorts of other things can start going awry if a man doesn't know where his kecks are or who took 'em off. Not only that, but there's a towel in the bed. It's all bunched up and digging into the backs of his knees uncomfortably, but it's very definitely _under_ him. He digs his fingers into his eye sockets as if that might rub some recollection into them. It doesn't, so he throws himself back down against the pillows instead.

"Morning, Alfie," Tommy says a couple of minutes later, carrying a tray into the room. Alfie tries to reply, but all that comes out is a strained croaking sound. He coughs and tries again, but it's not much better. Fucking hell he is on the back foot here — Tommy is up and dressed and back to his usual rigid self. He's looking as beautifully buttoned up as ever, whilst Alfie doesn't even know where his clothes _are_, let alone how he got out of them. 

"Oh dear, oh dear," Tommy mocks. "Has Alfred Solomons lost his voice?" He looks fucking delighted with himself. Bastard.

"Well," Alfie croaks, "I am of course only here to ensure a smile passes your lips at least once a week. Glad to see my misfortune has achieved that already this morning."

"Shut up, Alfie," Tommy says, "you sound like a toad."

It's a fair point. _Rude_, but fair. He manages to stay quiet for all of twenty seconds before curiosity gets the better of him. He has a feeling he's not going to like the answer to this question but he asks it anyway.

"So did you have your wicked way with me last night whilst I was unconscious or has an evil fairy performed a vanishing spell on my clothes? Hmm?"

"They were wet," Tommy says dismissively, before swiftly changing the subject. "Thought you might like something to eat," he says, placing the tray down on Alfie's legs. "Tea, toast and some weird-looking pastry things," Tommy says, recoiling from the plate.

"It's a type of food, Tommy. Some of us actually enjoy that, you know."

"They remind me of pissing contests in the school yard."

"You what?" Alfie splutters.

"You know, all of us boys would line up and see who could piss the highest up the wall. That's what they look like — a row of little dicks." 

"Fuckin' hell Tommy, that is just _nasty_." Despite which, he finds himself wondering who won, even rooting for eight-year-old-Tommy. His brain is quite clearly addled. "They're called rugelach; Edna makes 'em. You should try one." 

"No thanks," Tommy says, grimacing. "Only dick I wanna put my lips around is under those blankets."

That makes Alfie laugh, or at least try to, it catches in his throat and turns into something between a wheeze and a cough.

"I've gotta go," Tommy says, leaning over to give him a peck on the forehead. "Think you'd best stay here, eh?"

"Yeah, yeah, m'not going anywhere. All that bloody water. Must've caught something."

"I'll be back later. Got people to see."

–––––

Alfie spends half of the day in bed, hoping he can sleep off the worst of whatever this is. He avoids the towel and the damp sheets by sleeping on Tommy's side, but eventually his back forces him up — staying still for too long never does it any good. The light is grey and watery, must be afternoon by now, so he finds himself trousers and an undershirt, pulls them on as carelessly as ever and covers them with not one waistcoat, but two. He wraps a scarf around his neck for good measure and makes his way downstairs. One thing's for sure, he can't go to the bakery in this state. Men work harder for a monster than they do for other men – it doesn't do to humanise oneself with the staff. He makes an exception for Edna, calls Olly and has him send her over even though it's not one of her days. Be easier, maybe, if he installed a phone at her house. He makes sure to berate Olly soundly for all the things he knows will be sliding in his absence, as much to satisfy his irritability as to keep up appearances.

His theory on leadership is reinforced nicely by Edna's reaction to his watery eyes and rasping voice. "Oh Mr Solomons, you're not well. You must let me light you a fire. I'll bring honey and lemon. And make you some soup." See? Just like that he is no longer a leader of men but a little boy, as feeble and fallible as the rest of them. Much as he can't stand fussing, he can't deny that the soup, when it arrives, is deliciously welcome.

"If you could change the beds, Edna, please," he says, blowing across his mug of hot lemon. "I'll have a visitor tonight." 

"Very good, sir. But ... " she pauses, nervously, "are you sure you're up to guests?" 

And there it is again, that line being crossed purely and simply on grounds of his temporary infirmity.

"I'm up to this one," he answers gruffly.

Once she's gone he takes himself back up to bed. His whole body feels heavy and slow and unusually cold but the clean sheets are a luxury he can never take for granted — not when he's slept too many days and nights in mud thick with excrement and the slime of rotting flesh. Give him cool, crisp cotton over lice-ridden wool for the rest of his days and he will consider himself blessed. He should bathe really, but he can't face the bother. Maybe in a little while...

A hand on his cheek wakes him that evening. Fingers unmistakably cool and dry. He's fully clothed atop his sheets and feels a little better for the rest. But he's cold.

"Come downstairs for a bit, it's warmer," Tommy says quietly. Bloody hell, he hates this, feeling weak, coddled. He's tempted to refuse on principle. But Tommy is waiting for him on the landing and the fact that he isn't pushing forces Alfie to comply. "Not sure I can be arsed, mate. Too much bloody effort," he mumbles as he follows. He draws the line at Tommy holding his hands out, though. "I'm not a bloody invalid," he snaps, before undermining his point entirely by taking them nonetheless. Well, lying down all day has made everything seize up a bit more than usual.

As they reach the living room it's obvious that the fire is roaring in the grate. In front of it is his huge copper tub, like a ship ready to set sail, already steaming. And, that is something innit? He perks up a little at the sight, before frowning again, because it is rather disconcerting that Tommy managed to come into his house, get the tub from the yard and complete the laborious task of filling it with hot water without Alfie ever waking. He should be bothered by that. Very fucking bothered. Except there's a pleasant warm feeling in his belly that he chooses to go with instead.

"Come on then, get 'em off," Tommy chides, gesturing to the clothes he's still wearing, "before it gets cold."

The hot water is a joy to his aching joints. He's just leaning back against the high end when Tommy, fag dangling from the corner of his mouth, uncorks a small brown bottle and pours something into the water. The room immediately fills with a fierce, fiery smell, like pepper, or mustard, or fuck knows ... cloves or something. It's pungent and so acrid it hits the back of his throat. "Good god, Tommy, what the _fuck_ is that? Are you tryin' to off me?" he coughs, just as the ash falls off into the water. _Bloody hell, no finesse that boy._

"It's good for the chest," Tommy says, obliviously putting the cork back. "Fetched it from Ada's this afternoon."

"Smells like it's meant for horses, not humans."

"It is," Tommy answers bluntly, swirling his hand in the water to spread it through.

"Fucks sake, you're not even joking are you? You can take the boy out of the caravan..."

Alfie rests his head on the back of the tub. As the smell recedes a little it becomes familiar, sparking a memory of the first time he ever set eyes on Tommy, all those years ago. "This what you used after the Italians did their job on you?" he asks.

"It is."

"Fuckin' hell, talkative tonight, aren't we?" 

Tommy ignores him as he throws his cigarette end into the fire and starts removing his cufflinks, rolling his shirt sleeves up to the elbows. When he's done he pulls a footstool over and seats himself right up against the tub. "Sit up a bit," he orders, as he scoops water into a small cup. Alfie complies, wondering what the fuck he's doing. "Look up, you don't want this stuff in your eyes." Alfie is just about to ask him why when Tommy pours the water over the back of his head and starts raking his fingers through his hair. He feels like he ought to protest, but Tommy's already doing it again, pouring the water and raking it through, three times, four times, all brisk efficiency and alright, this has taken Alfie a bit off guard but he is suddenly intrigued. Tommy's movements are swift and awkward and he's very definitely looking at anything _but_ Alfie; almost like he's embarrassed. Which is kind of odd, because it's not like anyone asked him to do this did they? He can see Tommy leaning down for something out of the corner of his eye. "That better not be any more of that horse potion," he mumbles, but it's soap, which Tommy is lathering furiously between his palms as though it's done him an evil in a past life.

The next thing he knows the soap is being slapped onto his head. Tommy proceeds to scrub at his hair so roughly it makes Alfie's head joggle on his shoulders, and yet he can't help but smile broadly. Here he is, a grown man approaching the fourth decade of his life, having his hair washed like some school kid visiting the nit-nurse. The man doing it is so bloody _awkward_ it's comical, like he's actively trying to sabotage his own (rather thoughtful) gesture by deliberately going about it in a way that suggests he doesn't care at all. It really shouldn't be so fucking _endearing_. Alfie suppresses the desire to outright chuckle, because despite the absurdity of the situation he doesn't want it to end. Instead he shifts himself slowly backwards until he's leaning against the end of the tub again. Tommy stands up and walks round behind him, and somehow, being out of Alfie's line of sight seems to relax him a bit — his movements slow down and his fingers soften, which in turn allows Alfie to settle. He closes his eyes and focuses on the feeling of Tommy's fingers as they slip down to his shoulders, more sure of themselves now; they start a slow, firm slide upwards, thumbs pressing into the nape of his neck, fingers splaying out behind his ears. That's it. That's _much_ better. When they reach the top of his scalp they start turning small circles around his crown, his hairline, his temples. Bloody hell, it feels good_;_ he lets out a low, satisfied groan. 

"Alright?" Tommy asks quietly.

"Yeah s'alright. S'fucking good, mate. Really fucking good." And so Tommy keeps going, firm fingers pressing and scraping all over his head and neck until it's sending actual shivers down Alfie's spine, and not just from the pure physical pleasure. It's the fact that Tommy, a man generally oblivious to his own physical well-being, is lavishing attention on him. Care. Part of Alfie wants to rebel, to fight the implication that he _needs_ this in anyway, but the truth of the matter is that no one has ever done anything like this for him before. His mum must have done, once upon a time, but he's blowed if he can remember it and damn sure the bath wouldn't have been this hot or the fire this bright. And so he contents himself to watch the water — glowing orange like a sunset as it reflects the copper and the flames — and to lap up every delicious second of Tommy's hands on him. It's affectionate and intimate and Alfie would like to acknowledge that he appreciates it; to tell him that it _means_ something. But in the end he's too wary of breaking the fragile silence, so he sits and sighs and silently enjoys the attention. 

Eventually Tommy fills the cup again and pours water over his hair; Alfie has to sit up a bit so that it doesn't run onto the floor and Tommy moves to better reach him. He uses one hand to shield Alfie's eyes from the soap, smoothing his palm and pushing the water backwards. It makes Alfie's stomach flip, alarmingly. Just the way he's being so damn _careful_ about it, tilting Alfie's head, stroking his hair, concentrating. Hard to believe that it's Tommy. Tommy, who is always so stroppy and closed up and desperate to maintain his distance and his composure. Tommy, who only articulates _anything_ meaningful under duress. Tommy who stripped his damp clothes in the night; who pretends not to know the real reason for the wet sheets; who brought him a towel to sleep on and breakfast in bed. Tommy who fetched some remedy from Ada's and heated pans on the stove to fill this cumbersome old bath — despite there being a perfectly functioning one upstairs — because he _knows_ it's what Alfie prefers. He wishes it was easier just to say all that out loud, but it's not, is it? Because it will make Tommy self-conscious and evasive and defensive and then Alfie will have to spend hours (if not days) coaxing him back round. So he reverts to safety, to actions not words, because this is what they do.

"Get in," he growls. Tommy looks down at him, a slight twitch to the corner of his mouth. Alfie grabs his wrist until he drops the cup and looks him straight in the eye. "You, are gonna get in here in the next sixty seconds or I'm pulling you in with your clothes on."

"You feeling a little better?" Tommy asks, with an actual, proper smile.

"I'm planning on feeling a little gypsy," he replies, pulling harder on the arm. Tommy starts to move, irritatingly slowly, unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it out of his trousers (too easily Alfie notes). "You need to eat something," he says. 

"_Fuck off_," Tommy snaps back, and Alfie chooses to fight that battle another day, because he's meant to be feeling appreciative. Instead he focuses on the sight of Tommy folding himself up between Alfies legs, back to his chest, both facing the fire. It never fails to amaze him, how small Tommy can make himself, so lithe and wiry he can bend in two. He smoothes his wet hands across Tommy's shoulders, making his skin glisten. He really has a rather lovely neck, Alfie thinks as he leans down to kiss it, slipping his hands around to smooth over the pale planes of his chest. He is too fucking small, but it's hard to care when he’s nestled into Alfie like a cat, practically purring as Alfie continues to nuzzle at his neck. When his fingers find Tommy’s nipples they tease gently and a low sound vibrates in Tommy's throat. Alfie squeezes harder, pinching both nubs painfully and not letting go. The water splashes gently by Tommy's left foot as he flinches at the harsh touch, which only makes Alfie let out a low groan of his own.

He doesn't relent, just pinches harder still until Tommy tenses his feet against the foot of the bath and pushes back against his chest. _Fuck, there he is_, Alfie's needy little bastard. He finally lets go when Tommy hisses. And just like that, the atmosphere has changed, been charged. He runs one hand down Tommy's side and slides it over to cup his cock, satisfyingly hard already. "Mmmm," Alfie whispers into his neck, gently teasing his balls, "think you've earned yourself a reward. Get on you knees." 

Tommy hesitates, turning to peer over his shoulder at Alfie. "I thought you weren't feeling well," he says. Which is not an outright refusal, is it? More a play for time.

"Never said that," Alfie replies. Which is true. Plus he is _never_ going to amit that the gypsy potion might be doing some good.

Tommy slowly starts to lift himself, confused but compliant, clearly a good boy tonight. "That's it, face the fire," Alfie says, hands already stroking up and down Tommy's thighs, admiring the view. He's kneeling upright, between Alfie's knees, back to his face.

"Alfie, what are you doing?" he asks, sounding a little fed up.

"Just hold onto that end for me," Alfie says, nodding towards the foot of the bath. He resists using the words "bend over," even though that's _exactly_ what he means, because they both know Tommy doesn't like it. 

"What the ..." Tommy starts to protest and Alfie just cuts him off. "Just do as you're told, eh?" Tommy swallows and reaches towards the end of the tub reluctantly. When he's got both hands on it, back slightly arched, Alfie lifts his knees, one at a time, and places them either side of his own. That's better, the stance is wider and he runs his hands over the smooth cheeks now just in front of his face. He really wants Tommy to bend down lower, but he's willing to take his time. He leans for the soap and lathers it up to a thick foam before reaching for Tommy's cock — less hard than it was before, signalling his self-consciousness. It's disappointing, but Alfie is unperturbed. He proceeds to massage the soap all over Tommy's balls and cock before stroking over his arse. "What the fuck are you doing?" Tommy asks, sounding a little shocked. 

"Just returning the favour, love," he says, tone all innocent. His intentions are anything but as he rubs his thumb down the crease between Tommy's pale cheeks, feeling him flinch each time he passes the hole. He's enjoying the view immensely as he rolls Tommy's balls with the other hand, soaping them gently like a pair of delicate eggs. The hand on his arse keeps stroking the crease, up and down, catching on that puckered little hole on each passing glide. Tommy is starting to relax, to push back slightly and lower his head. _That's it_, Alfie thinks, like coaxing a kitten to a saucer of milk, he'll go gently and get what he wants. He slides his hand back to to the re-hardened cock, spreading the suds until everything is soft and slippery and too captivating to ignore. 

He can't help but stare at Tommy's arse while he slides his hands over everything. He pushes the tip of his thumb into the hole and quickly back out - the little gasp from Tommy like music to his ears. He repeats the movement, quickly, eagerly, just short, sharp stabs that make Tommy clench and Alfie sigh. 

"Just stay there love, right fucking there," he says, gripping one thigh like a warning. He picks up the cup and pours water from the small of Tommy's back, watching as it floods down the perfect crevice of his arse. When the soap has all gone he slumps slightly in the water and prises the cheeks apart with his thumbs. Tommy rocks forward slightly at that, everything tightening against the scrutiny, but Alfie keeps his grip, keeps him spread. Then he does what he's wanted to do for a very long time and flicks his tongue over the tight little entrance, once, twice, three times.

Strange that this should feel forbidden, despite everything else that they do. Which may or may not explain the gut-punch of lust overtaking Alfie right this bloody second; the unusually vocal sound Tommy makes as he sloshes forward in the water does absolutely nothing to quell it — it's as if he's trying to escape. Alfie just puts his hands round the front of Tommy's thighs and pulls him back into place, because he has no intention of stopping. But neither does he have any idea of what might actually feel good to the recipient, he realises. It can't be that different from kissing he figures, so he presses his lips to the hollow dimple and licks softly, reverently until Tommy responds with a strange, strangled sound. 

"Just relax," Alfie mumbles, because _fuck_ this is turning him on; the heat, the smell, the smooth, fluttering muscle — the way Tommy's subtly resisting — pulling away and tightening up so that Alfie has to grip his hips hard and hold him in place. He lets his tongue flatten and skates it upwards, firmly, licking the length of his crease slowly, repeatedly. He pays some attention to the back of his balls but can't help but return to lick over the central nucleus, wetting him, lapping him, _tasting_ him. 

When Alfie's tongue dares to dip inside Tommy's head droops dramatically downwards; he moans out a curse and seems to collapse, shoulders dropping like he's suddenly boneless. His head rests on his forearms, draped over the end of the bath and he groans so carnally that Alfie feels his stomach lurch and his cock respond. He starts sucking as well as licking, sealing the entire loosened ring with his lips and flicking gently with his tongue. Tommy loosens up further — moans and pushes back — which just makes everything easier to reach, to admire. He delves as deep as he can with his tongue, intrigued by the feel of it, so tough yet so soft. He keeps stopping to look, pulling back and opening him before plunging back in with his mouth. Fuck, he is in awe, as usual, of how delightfully Tommy moves, intermittently bearing down and clenching up like he's drawing Alfie in. 

The problem is that Alfie's neck his aching, and though he doesn't want to stop, not with every flinch and every quiver so delightfully on display, he knows Tommy's knees must hurt too. Not that Tommy's complaining, but then again he never does, even when Alfie hurts him. Which is what finally does it, forces him to make the move because he wants Tommy to enjoy this too. 

"Upstairs. Now," he growls, pulling himself upright and slapping Tommy's arse for emphasis. They both move impressively quickly, fleeing the bath with a haste that showers water and soap over everything. They each grab a towel and head up the stairs, like children playing tag. 

Once in his room, Alfie lays Tommy on his belly and stuffs enough pillows under his hips that he looks like a fucking invitation, perfectly positioned for Alfie to lick until his tongue burns from the effort. Which is exactly what he does. He delves and circles and laps at that perfect pink ring like a tiger grooming its cub. Any earlier malady is forgotten in his hunger for every squirm and sigh and stifled moan from the man beneath his mouth. By the time he crawls up the bed Tommy's arse is so slick with drool that he doesn't even bother with oil; simply laces their fingers together as he lines himself up and presses relentlessly in. Tommy gasps as he's entered, arching rigidly against him, and making a high, shaky sound that turns Alfie's legs to liquid. When his full weight rests flat on Tommy's back he just waits, marvelling at how he can fit himself inside the taut little ring he's been licking. It doesn't look possible, and yet here they are, slotted so tightly together. When, after a minute, everything is quiet and utterly still he murmurs, "there we go," softly against the curve of Tommy's ear. 

And then he fucks him, slow and heavy, like he wants him to feel every inch and every ounce, to understand the _weight _of his want_._ And when even that's not enough he wraps his arms under Tommy's chest and pulls him onto his side. Actions are easier than words for Tommy, he's learnt that much by now, so Alfie wraps him tight around the chest and fucks him till he's exhausted, till everything hurts. He presses their bodies so close together it's like he's trying to fuse them with pressure, to cold-weld them. Tommy just lets him, shallows his breathing to compensate and lets Alfie fuck him senseless.

Only when he's trembling right on the edge does Alfie loosen the embrace, moving one hand down to stroke him thoroughly through it. Tommy comes with a sharp gasp of breath, which makes Alfie moan unabashedly — lost in the sight and the sound of Tommy letting himself go. He can't see his lovely face at this angle, but he knows that his mouth will be open, his eyes closed, his brow gently furrowed. He kisses the parts he can reach — ear, neck, shoulder, clavicle — so focused on those that he's not even thinking of his own climax, just pumping his hips on pure instinct, lost in the moment, until Tommy makes a strange whimpering sound and taps his arm frantically. And for some reason _that_ brings him back, tips him over until he is coming too. "Fuuuck," he groans as he floods into Tommy, shuddering helplessly as he tries to hold still.

Tommy goes limp with relief, slumping drowsily onto his belly and Alfie moves heavily with him, arms still wrapped round his chest. They lie like that for several minutes, stickily joined together. Tommy clenches once round Alfie's softened dick as it withdraws in a hot rush of slick. He seems half-asleep but still murmurs irritably at the loss, which makes Alfie want to kiss him all over again. He presses his lips to Tommy's back, smoothing a hand down his side, pausing to pull the sheets up slightly, before he inevitably starts to shiver. He sinks lower, kissing all the way down Tommy's spine to the small of his back, revelling in the smell of sweat and sex and _Tommy_. And affectionate as this is, his mind is being slowly overtaken by an obscene and confusing thought. He's mildly troubled by it (or more accurately, by what Tommy might think of it) but he'll find out soon enough because he's already shuffling down the bed, under the sheets, kissing as he goes. Tommy groans sleepily as Alfie pushes one of his knees up the bed and out of the way because he wants to _look_, to _see_ where his cock has been, what it's done to that innocent pink hole. God, he can smell _himself_ on Tommy, which surely has no business feeling so _satisfying_. He moves one hand to spread Tommy's arse and is vaguely aware of an irritable response, above the rushing of blood in his ears. "Alfie, what the fuck...?"

"Shhh," he soothes, before biting Tommy's arse-cheek gently, teeth clenching round the firm muscle. Then he pulls it aside, looking straight at the evidence of his defilement. He moans involuntarily, a sound that rattles in his aching chest, and runs one thumb up the cleft of that beautiful backside. Tommy's hand comes round lazily to swat him, but Alfie just grips it easily and holds it in mid air. He is focused shamelessly on that glossy, wet passage — can't help but push his thumb back inside — just to see how easily it glides in now that he's fucked it open. He pumps a few times, insistent but gentle, watching the mess that drips out of him. It's impure and possessive and Alfie couldn't care less until Tommy frees his hand and grabs his hair and pulls him up the bed. "Fucking hell, Alfie," he sighs, which might mean he's cross. Or self-conscious. Or neither. He sounds more tired than anything. Either way, he escapes to the bathroom, leaving Alfie alone with his thoughts.

"Who else you done that for?" Alfie asks when Tommy slides back in beside him.

"What?" Tommy asks, frowning. "If you mean have I ever let anyone lick..."

"Not that!" Alfie laughs, he knows enough to be sure that _that_ was a first. "The other stuff. The bath and the hair and ... you know, the towel and that."

"Charlie," Tommy says, reaching over to the nightstand for his cigarettes. "He likes it when I do bath time. And Ada, when she was a kid ... Arthur was never interested in helping." He pauses as he lights the cigarette. "My mother — towards the end." He looks wistfully at the ceiling as he blows his smoke in the air. Alfie just stares at him, picturing all the things he's just said, thinking of all the things he doesn't _know_ about Tommy. How that always surprises him. "I _can_ look after people you know," Tommy says, sounding mildly affronted.

"Hmmm," Alfie says in a tone that sounds entirely unconvinced. "Just not yourself, eh?"

"Fuck, off," Tommy replies, but he doesn't actually deny it. He finishes the cigarette and turns to stub it out in the ashtray before pulling Alfie in close. It feels strange to be the little spoon, but Alfie goes with it, shuffling down under the covers. He's going to regret the exertion in the morning, he can already tell, his chest feels like it's filled with hot sand. He might have to hold onto that little brown bottle (won't tell Tommy of course) because he did manage to forget feeling ill for a while. Bloody hell, what is happening to him? _Fucking horse medicine._ But he drifts into sleep happy and sated and to dreams that are filled only with stallions. Which wouldn't be his first choice, let's face it, but could be an awful lot worse.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, as you can see, I spend a long time on the titles! This one was a long time coming, sorry, life has been a lot. I hope it was worth the wait! As ever I would love to hear from you...


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